


three sentences and three days (phil has lost his third son)

by miidniight



Series: signed by one mr. innit and one mr. soot [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Sleepy Bois Inc Angst, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28825953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miidniight/pseuds/miidniight
Summary: Phil reads the letter Wilbur wrote.---Or, Phil's reaction toformally, and hoping you burn in hell, wilbur soot.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: signed by one mr. innit and one mr. soot [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113617
Comments: 18
Kudos: 416





	three sentences and three days (phil has lost his third son)

**Author's Note:**

> hello i can't get out of this mini au fjdklfjdsk. 
> 
> like it says in the summary, this is connected to my other fic, but it's not necessary to have read it in order to read this. some things might make more sense though, so i recommend checking it out!! enjoy :D!!!

Phil was not often one to show his emotions.

His birthplace had not been a realm like the SMP was, where you had three lives to your name before you passed into the great unknown. Dying was unpleasant and feared, but the absolute terror that Phil had grown up with was absent until two tallies had been marked upon your soul.

Where Phil came from, you had one chance, and if you blew it that was it. No redos, no redemption arcs—you were dead and gone with one stroke of a sword or one misstep of a pressure plate.

This meant that the rules there were different. It was a harsher world, colder and lacking the color that brimmed through every particle that made up the SMP and its surrounding lands. The first rule to learn was kill or be killed. Phil was no stranger to death, though not in the normal use of the phrase. He had brushed close to it once or twice, but for years his hand had been the one to guide death. Monster after monster and enemy after enemy had fallen to his blade. To this day, Phil wasn’t sure how many he had slain, but it had been enough to garner him a reputation and a title: The Angel of Death.

The second rule was that the weak were cut loose. No one, not even the world itself, had time to spare or resources to waste on those that could not make it on their own. If weakness was shown, natural selection would take its course. Sickly children, human and animal alike, were often discarded. Phil had never had the heart to do this himself, he had even nursed a few injured mobs back to health, but it was what was expected for his home.

This rule had been his reason for taking in his three sons. He had found all of them, alone and abandoned in this world he had just joined, and expected their fates to follow with what he knew, and damn him if he was about to watch as these three boys with young, wounded hearts were killed without mercy in front of him.

The third rule was that everything was an advantage. Belongings, loved ones, emotions themselves—nothing and no one was above underhanded, unfair dealings. Phil had come to learn that for his own safety, calm and composed was the only way to stay alive.

But Wil’s letter?

Wil’s letter broke him.

For the first time in Phil’s life, he cried.

He had never, not _once_ allowed the water that would gather in his eyes drip down his cheeks. Not when he was twelve and found himself cornered by a mob of zombies and escaped by nothing but luck, not when he was twenty and nearly died to blazes, not even when he was well past the age of caring just how old he was and finally, _finally_ slayed the dragon.

And yet three sentences had them tearing down his face faster than any horse could ever hope to run.

The SMP was practically inaccessible to Phil and Techno these days. They relied almost solely on Ranboo for news and updates as to what was occurring, and it was never anything of terrible importance. Techno had hardened when Ranboo mentioned that Tubbo was building a new city called Snowchester, but had relaxed his tense posture when the teen mentioned that the only residents were Jack Manifold and Tubbo himself.

Ranboo had appeared over the crest of a hill while he and Techno were working on building a small potato farm in front of the house, for old times’ sake. The boy had been practically sprinting across the tundra, one hand holding his ever present journal to his chest, and the other clinging tightly to the crown that sat upon his head. Phil had given Techno a worried look before they placed their hoes down and waited (Phil, for his arrival, and Techno, most likely, for Ranboo to lose his balance and fall face first into the snow).

By the time he got to the pair, Ranboo was out of breath and practically keeling over, chest heaving as he fought to suck lungfuls of air through his throat. Phil had reached a cautious hand towards him, meaning to help, but the look Ranboo had shot him—something wary, disappointed, and far wiser than Phil would have ever expected from the teen—had him pausing halfway.

“Wilbur…” Ranboo managed to puff out between breathless gasps, “Wilbur’s… gone.”

“What,” Techno croaked out, his monotone voice and deadpan expression turning his question into a statement.

“Wilbur… is gone.”

Phil had taken a step backwards, horror spiking through his chest as spots were sent dancing across his vision in dizzying waves. _No,_ his mind had reeled, some small part deep inside, screaming, _Not again._

Ranboo, panic making his dual colored eyes blow wide open, had straightened with outstretched palms as he furiously tried to correct his mistake. “No, no… no, no, no,” he began, a small croak in the undertone of his voice sounding distinctly endermen-like and betrayed just how stressed he was, “He’s not… like, _gone_ gone. He’s still alive just… he’s left. He took Tommy with him.”

Phil had stared at Ranboo unseeingly, not quite comprehending what it was he was saying. Wilbur had left? He had taken Tommy with him?

_But why?_

As if Ranboo had been able to hear the question rattling around in his brain, he had slowly, hesitantly, reached a hand towards his journal. From there, one white hand pulled a folded paper out of the book’s pages. Ranboo’s long arm had swung gently in Phil’s direction, as if it would somehow soften the gut wrenching, heart shattering words held within.

Phil had scanned the contents feverishly, hands beginning to shake when they passed over the section addressed to Techno. It was scathing, it was brutal, it was harsh and merciless and filled with so much anger that Phil had been surprised there weren’t rips in the paper from when Wil had been writing.

Finally he had come across a section of his own. It was the shortest, only three sentences, and yet somehow it seemed to hold more pain than any of the others. Phil froze, his breath catching in his throat as the paper trembled like a leaf in the wind between his fingers as he read the twenty-three words over and over.

_“You don’t deserve the title of father._

_You left your son to rot on an island._

_You don’t deserve to be his dad.”_

Distantly, from a different world, one outside of the hell Phil found himself currently stood in, he had heard Techno call his name softly and place one worried hand on his arm. He felt himself fall to his knees in slow motion, the chill of the snow not even registering. Wilbur’s hurt had shot through his soul in a downward spiral of grief and guilt.

**_“You don’t deserve to be his dad.”_ **

_Oh gods._

“How long… how long ago was this?” Phil’s question had sounded muffled to his own ears, as if he was speaking underwater. Everything was too fast, everything was too slow, everything was too much, but everything was fake.

“Three days.”

Three days.

Wilbur and Tommy had been gone for three days and Phil hadn’t even known.

His sons (his sons?) were long gone.

Phil had dropped the letter into the icy clutches of the snow below, had felt his world go off kilter as he teetered from side to side, and Phil had cried.


End file.
